Thomas Moore

From “Irish Melodies”. 31. Before the Battle

By the hope within us springing,
  	Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
  	Chains or freedom, death or life –
Oh! remember life can be
No charm for him, who lives not free!
  	Like the day-star in the wave,
  	Sinks a hero in his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

  	Happy is he o'er whose decline
  	The smiles of home may soothing shine
And light him down the steep of years: –
  	But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
  	Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
  	Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
  	Where we tamed his tyrant might.

Never let him bind again
A chain; like that we broke from then.
  	Hark! the horn of combat calls--
  	Ere the golden evening falls,
May we pledge that horn in triumph round! 

  	Many a heart that now beats high,
  	In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound –
  	But oh, how blest that hero's sleep,
  	O'er whom a wondering world shall weep!